There and Back Again
by The.Melanarchist
Summary: Battle of the Five Armies missing scenes and drabbles. Suffice to say, there will be spoilers for the movie! No slash. Expect friendship feels and father-son moments. Open to suggestions and movie gushers. T for violence/gore and death. Newest Chapter: Legolas is going to leave. Indefinitely. And Thranduil must let him.
1. When Faced with Death

**(A/N) This'll be a collection of drabbles and my takes on missing scenes from The Battle of the Five Armies. I just ****_needed_**** to write about it! Awesome, awesome movie that it was, expect most of the future chapters to revolve around Bilbo's friendship with Thorin and Legolas' relationship with his father. I don't do slash, but I will take recommendations.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own, but if I did, I think I'd have watched the extended edition about twenty times by now.**

**WARNING: Serious spoilers if you haven't seen the movie, and dialogue is only as good as my memory. Oh. And feels. **

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_**When Faced with Death**_

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Bilbo cannot say goodbye. He has never been good at them. When he was younger he would fool himself into thinking goodbyes were meaningless pleasantries, that they were equivalent to 'good night' s or 'see you tomorrow' s. This is why he prefers to sneak out in the dead of night. Pack up silently and leave. Do not confront it, it can only hurt.

Now, Thorin lies with his eyes dimming. His breath comes out in short gasps and blood pools on the ice. Still, the king doggedly meets his eyes, never surrendering to the cold and Bilbo's pleas to remain silent and just _hold on_. He will never be able to forget this moment, nor could he bear to try. No, he cannot avoid it this time.

And it hurts already.

But the dwarf is always stubborn, and that spark is back in his eyes—the spark Bilbo had begged for, but was so quickly consumed by dragon lust. Tears prick at his eyes even though the hobbit tries desperately not to let them fall. He doesn't want this time ruined. Wasted. The time is precious beyond measure—worth all the gold in Erebor ten times over.

But Thorin is too busy spending his breath on apologies and laments as Bilbo's hands go to stifle the crimson pooling over his leather tunic. The wound is gaping-ghastly-_mortal_ and Bilbo is hanging onto the dwarf's words like he is the one dying instead. Thorin smiles so fondly at him that he chokes on the words he has planned, and the voice that never had failed him even when facing trolls and dragonfire chooses now to abandon him.

"I would take back my words and my deeds at the Gate. I am sorry to have dragged you into such peril." His eyes glitter with regret and a hand rests weakly on Bilbo's knee. The dwarf's skin is frighteningly pale, contrasting with the darkness in his beard and his hair that splays across the ice.

"Forgive me."

He is forgiven already, and Bilbo wishes he can tell him so. He was forgiven the moment he charged out of the mountain, sword raised high and twelve dwarves at his back. He musters up a smile of assurance, and can see the desperation flee from the King's face, the joy there enough to bring his words back to him.

"I am glad to have shared in your perils." He finds his tongue at last, "Every last one of them. It has been far more than any Baggins deserves."

And he sees that parting on good terms is all that matters now, that leaving this friendship in kindness is all he can hope for, and he is lucky to have these moments at all. Thorin's voice continues on, gaining power while that same strength is leaving him. But as Bilbo fails to keep the tears at bay, the words are slowing, and the body is stilling. The blue eyes are glassy and blink only once more.

The King Under the Mountain dies with a half-smile on his face.

Bilbo isn't ready yet. He doesn't think he ever will be. The dead, unmoving eyes are set on something far behind him, and so he tricks himself into thinking the life is not gone from them. He continues to talk to Thorin until sobs wrack his body and words no longer come. His hands are red with the dwarf-king's blood, but he doesn't see that. Thorin has just come _back_ to them. And now he is gone. And Bilbo hasn't even said goodbye.

"Farewell, my friend." He manages after a while, and the words seem too little, too late, and all too final.

The parting words are flimsy, and the title is not _enough_ and Thorin has not even heard it.

He hates goodbyes, but he says it again and again, until the blood has crusted on his hands, and the light is fading from the sky. His tears have run dry and he simply sits, guarding the corpse that was once King with stubbornness worthy of Thorin himself. His words have given up on him and it is no longer _important_ to talk, and he cannot foresee a future at the moment when the words will ever be important again.

So when Dwalin approaches with a cry full of grief, he does not move, does not speak. He stands guard until Gandalf comes and tugs him away, and it is all he can do to follow. All his fire and rebellion no longer _matter _so they cannot be found, just like his words and his tears. He allows himself to be led by the hand, body stone cold from the ice and something more.

His body is whole. His hands do not shake. He has survived the fire storm and the battle, the fear and the grief, the ambush and the end.

But his smile will not come, and he doesn't think it will—not for a long time. Because it no longer matters.

When faced with death, what can anyone do? They heal and trudge on, but a little bit less than they once were.

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**(A/N) Please drop me a review, and suggestions, or just to gush about the movie XD. Thanks for reading! Artistic license was used for interpretation, and the following chapters will be written in the same tense and style, because I'm trying it out.**


	2. Brothers in Arms

**(A/N) Wow, thanks for all of the lovely feedback! I really appreciate everyone who has fav'd and followed this story, and reviews always make my day! I didn't have time to respond to each individually, but I do see all the suggestions, so keep 'em coming! So, as per the recommendations of _bronze andromeda shun_ and _maplewind_, I offer you a Fili-Kili scene:**

**Disclaimer: I don't own, but if I did, I wouldn't have been so surprised when Legolas ran out of arrows. He. Ran. Out. Of. Arrows. I'm still shocked, even now. So don't sue me.**

**WARNING: Serious spoilers if you haven't seen the movie, and dialogue is only as good as my memory. Oh. And feels.**

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_**Brothers in Arms**_

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They race through stone encased passages as fast as they dare. The smallest of noises have them skidding to a halt and remaining stock still for minutes on end. Kili knows that something is not right—it is too quiet. He feels trapped within the narrow halls, and his hands are twitching with anticipation. But they will continue to search. Uncle Thorin has asked it of them, and Kili knows he would do anything for him now that he is no longer under the pull of gold sickness. So they search.

And the feeling of wrongness only intensifies.

His brother is beside him, sword drawn and fierce expression of determination writ across his features. Kili sees there is nothing to fear. His mind knows it. And since when has he ever feared bodily harm? Yet he is more afraid now than he has ever been. And he doesn't know why. He schools his features into the usual battle mask, not allowing the unease to fray at his nerves. He should be having fun. The three of them are back together, fighting together, and that force is unstoppable, orc armies be damned.

That is, until Fili suggests they split up.

"No, stay and search the lower levels. I've got this."

Warning bells are going off in Kili's head now, and he really wants to refuse. To say no, and to tug his brother back by the arm to Uncle and Dwalin. But this is a childish thought that no dwarf could ever harbor, so he shoves it aside. He nods briskly. It makes more sense. They've gotten out of riskier situations unscathed, so this should not be any different. Still, he meets the blue-grey of Fili's eyes and holds them longer than necessary. It is clear that Fili feels the wrongness as well, but neither of them are willing to admit it. Instead, it is all he can manage to speak a little too late.

"Be careful, brother." He is not sure if Fili has heard him.

And there is nothing left to say, so he turns his back and they run their separate ways. He lets his mind focus on the task at hand, but he can find no orcs, can see no trace of them. He is at the bottom level, with nowhere left to search, and he curses that Fili should be the one to find them and not him. He hates not knowing what is happening, and the wrongness has festered for too long.

But here he can see across the way to Thorin on the ledge, and he tries to give him a reassuring smile. _All is well_, he tries to convey, though he does not feel it. But Uncle does not look at him, does not see him. He is staring above, and his eyes are lost-looking and horrified. Kili's hands wring at the grip of his sword until the knuckles are white and his heartbeat is too loud. He needs to know what is wrong, but he is not sure he wants it. That knowledge.

He sees Thorin's lips form a name. _Fili_. But it is too softly spoken for him to hear.

There is noise above him, garbled Black Speech calls across the void, and the shuffling of weapons and feet and something more. The grunts and protests of another, of Fili, as he is no doubt prodded and shoved. Kili's blood freezes.

.

They have him.

.

They have _Fili_.

.

Kili's body tenses and it takes all the self-control he can muster to stay hidden where he is. Provoking the orcs above can only do ill for whatever scenario is playing out. He must find a way to get there, to _him_, but he is frozen with the same fear he can see flickering across his Uncle's face.

_No_. Thorin's lips form. Then louder. _No. _

But all Kili can hear is a strangled,

"Go!"

"Run!"

And Fili's voice is desperate, but not for himself.

Kili has just decided that he must _go_, but not in the way Fili wants him to. He cannot wait, he cannot be still and hide—not when Fili is alone and outnumbered.

But that is when the body hits. The lank, blonde form of his brother strikes the stone not twenty paces from where he stands and there is only shock and horror, and hope that his brother will stand right back up. _That little fall? That cannot hold me back_, Fili would say and they would laugh and slay the orcs together.

Red stains the ground quickly, but Fili's eyes are empty. He is not getting up. He was not alive when he was dropped. The body is a shell. He will never get up. Still, the face is contorted with bravery and not fear, and Kili is suddenly angry.

He is so angry that everything he can see is the color of the lifeblood pooling out over stone, and anywhere his eyes fall can only find those blank, dead eyes staring back at him.

He feels the anger replace the fear in moments, and it holds him up and keeps him standing—rage flowing through his veins instead of blood. A small part of him knows that he must let the fury consume him, because without it he would be nothing, empty and collapsed like the shell left of his brother. So he lets the anger build in his lungs and limbs like adrenaline, lets out a battle cry as he can finally _move again_.

He storms up the stairs, all rawness and anger, and because everything hurts already, he does not feel it when an orcish blade nicks his shoulder. His sword is lethal, his powerful strikes wicked with accuracy and hate. That small part of him that _knows_ cannot see ahead past the rage, so there can only be fury and carelessness left. He cannot think—can only feel. If he thinks he will stop and remember, and he _cannot_ _stop_, or he is sure he will die.

"Kili!" He hears Thorin roar behind him, a command and a plea for him to stop before he cannot go back. Kili does not look at him, because he can't. If he looks he might break.

.

He has already decided.

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He cannot stop.

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**(A/N) Done because I agree with _maplewind_ and Fili's death was totally underdone in the otherwise amazing movie. Thanks for reading, and drop me a suggestion XD!**


	3. Parting Words

**(A/N) Thanks for the feedback! As per Koragg's suggestion (and my own obsession with elves), the following is a Thranduil and Legolas scene from the movie. Wanted some more father-son interaction, so had to get this one out. Keep those awesome suggestions coming!  
**

**Disclaimer: I don't own, but if I did, I wouldn't have already written a short fic with speculation on Legolas' family history. It was wrong. And if I knew, well now. It would be right, wouldn't it? So don't sue. It's rude.**

**WARNING: Serious spoilers if you haven't seen the movie, and dialogue is only as good as my memory. Oh. And feels.**

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_**Parting Words**_

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Thranduil shifts uneasily when he approaches the scene. The darkness is etched into the crevices—Ravenhill reeking of death and sadness. The sky is cast in white and the cold shudders through every brick, but the battle is won, so the cool does not sting as it should. The head of ash blonde hair rounds the corner just as he does, and the Elvenking looks him over.

Though Legolas appears fine, his eyes suggest otherwise. His son is weaponless and tired. The king finds some relief—Legolas is physically unharmed. But again, the eyes. There is deep hurt in the icy blue. He can tell before Legolas says it.

He will not stay here.

_Here_ as in home. As in Mirkwood.

A glance tossed to the outer deck of the stone structure reveals her, _Tauriel _(the name is thought with a little distaste), kneeling over the dead dwarf and Thranduil understands. He understands how it must hurt. But because he is ice on the outside, the Elvenking does not reach out, merely softens his scrutiny in sympathy.

And Legolas tries to be ice as well. But the façade cracks with a prod from the Sindar's gaze, and for just a moment the King can see how he truly feels. Pain-heartbreak-_longing_, but there is still respect there, and so he has turned his back on the mourner. Unrequited but accepted, and Thranduil feels a surge of pride, followed by a sadness he did not know he could still feel. Legolas is going to leave. Indefinitely.

And Thranduil must let him.

Brushing off the elf has been easy these past years. He is constant, loyal, dependable. He knows the ice is but a front and does not hold scathing remarks against the king that only expresses himself thusly. He is never hurting, nor in need of aid, and his counsel can only be compromised by conflicting friendships. Thranduil is proud of his son, his right hand in charge, and all the virtues he possesses that Thranduil knows himself to be lacking.

However, now Legolas is leaving and there must be _more_.

So Thranduil gives him something to hold on to—tales of a ranger in the north. A purpose to still his busy mind and distract from the hurt. It is a meager offering, but Thranduil is clutching at straws and still searching for _more_.

But the ice must remain because it is part of him, and melting a single layer would compromise the entire structure built above it. The sorrows and the pain must remain walled inside, numb beyond recognition. So Thranduil hides behind his frigid front and only allows the warmth he knows is there to touch his eyes.

Barely.

Just for a moment.

"Your mother loved you." He says from behind his wall—using her to say what he cannot bring himself to. And suddenly _she_ is a part of him again. _She_ can be thought of—can be spoken of again.

And it is important that Legolas hears it.

.

"More than anything."

.

"More than life."

.

But when ice melts there is water, and so he can feel his eyes are glimmering with wetness that can never fall, lest the rest of him crack and his coping mechanism fail. He can see Legolas' mouth part in surprise at the words, and something flickers behind those eyes.

_You have not forgotten_. The eyes say, as if a fear has been conquered, as if he had magically taken away a small fraction of the hurt.

.

As if this proffered token makes up for all the slights.

.

And Thranduil knows that his ice _has_ caused hurt, because he has never intended _her_ memory to be erased. Yet thoughts of _her_ only bring pain, and so the ice was first let in to stop the fading. To stifle the ache and quench the feeling. Feeling causes mistakes. Sentiment clouds judgement.

But Legolas' ice is not like his. It still lets the memory in. It _survives_ on the memory.

He sees that it is not truly ice at all.

He clasps his hand to his chest in parting gesture, a half bow of respect in the inclination of his head. And it _is_ respect, because Legolas is far stronger than him to face the memory and the pain, and still come out whole on the other side.

Legolas returns the gesture, but it is lingering and there is _feeling_ behind it.

And Thranduil lets him go, because he must go.

.

And he lets the memory back in.

Just for a moment.

.

And it hurts.

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**(A/N) Thanks for reading! Sorry it's so short. I did some fleshing out with a heavy metaphor here, and I'm not too sure I like the result, but I do think the scene was great in the movie, so any comments on the style would be greatly appreciated. Suggestions are life, and reviews are writing catalysts!**


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